Soft Targets

MONDAY, 10 NOVEMBER, 1980:

As Hakim awaited the girl, Maurice Everett's evening had hardly begun in Colorado Springs. He selected a fresh log from the bin and thrust it into his fireplace, holding it with two fingers like a rolled newspaper.

'It'll catch,' David Engels grinned from his chair, waving the mug lazily. 'Sit down, Maury, you're nervous as a bridegroom. Forget she's coming.'

'I'd like to,' Everett said, dusting his hands. He reached for a poker, then realized it was more makework, more fuel for Engels whose amuse­ment was beginning to grate on the nerves. 'Some more rum in your toddy?'

'I'm fine.' Engels placed a hand over the bev­erage. At times of stress, he knew, Everett drank sparingly but wanted everybody else drunk as lords. 'It's Vercours you should be plying with booze. I'd rather you did it tonight, out of your own pocket, than later with contingency funds.'

'That raises a nice question, Dave. I'm grate­ful, and I won't ask what contingency funds those are—'

'Wouldn't tell you anyhow.'

'—But who decides when I need Vercours? Let's assume my intuition's screwed up, and it works out so well I use her for every public appearance. That's twenty times a year.'

'Fifty thou? Pretty steep,^' Engels replied. 'I'd probably palm you off on a bureau man; maybe switch 'em around.'

'So you do decide.' He saw the Engels fea­tures become opaque and knew that he was right. 'Well then, why didn't you suggest that to begin with?'

'I told you on the phone, and I told you today, and for the last time I'm telling you: if a female can handle this work, she's better. She raises fewer suspicions. The Secret Service used to make bodyguards obvious on the theory that it'd put a case of the shakes on the assassin. But for some of these fanatics it just shows 'em in which direction to start the spray of lead.'

'Or at least that's the current theory.'

'All God's chillun got theories,' said Engels, and sipped. 'If you don't like ours, pick another one.'

'And fund it myself.'

Engels winked: 'You got it. Look, Maury, I can't locate any bureau women who'd be as available. Besides,' he went on, ticking off details on his fingers, 'Vercours takes it seriously. She's been taking lessons in defensive driving at Riverside. And Wally Conklin likes the ENG coverage she does on him. She even tapes his speeches. What more could you ask? I'll tell you one thing sure, Wally Conklin isn't going to be singing any hosannas over your hiring her away.'

'Your hiring her away!'

One eye closed in an outre horsewink: 'If you won't tell, I won't tell.'

Everett's laugh rattled crockery in the next room. 'Okay, you bastard: so you foot the bills and I take the heat. And what'd you say about Vercours and defensive driving? What doesn't she do?'

'She doesn't do-wacka-doo, if that's what you mean,' Engels said archly. 'Not with our likes, at least. Think of Gina Vercours as one of the boys.'

'But she might run off with my secretary?'

'Doubtful. Wouldn't be good business, and Vercours sounds like all business on the phone. She picked the time tonight—'

The door chime echoed. Everett stood up too quickly, then forced himself to move toward the door as though relaxed. He told himself that it was not lack of self-confidence. It was simply that he did not know how to behave with most women, never had, which was why his early marriage had failed early. He was ill at ease because—all right, then, it was lack of self-confidence with women. While traversing his carpet, Maurice Everett had made a valuable dis­covery.

He made another as he swung the door open. Gina Vercours, in heels, was taller than most men. Her 'Hi,' the smile on the wide mouth, and the handshake were greetings to an equal. He ushered her in, saw her drape the suede coat and a bag that was half purse, half equipment satch­el, on his closet doorknob. Everett's crockery rattled again.

David Engels hurried toward them. 'What'd I miss?'

'That's what I do,' Everett said, pointing to the coat and bag. 'But I put my coat in the closet tonight to—to —you know,' he said feebly.

Gina nodded, then studied the closet door. 'If you'd put a dozen doorknobs on that wall, you wouldn't need a closet. I'll bill you later,' she said, shaking hands with Engels. 'Or you can buy me off now with whatever I smell in the air.'

In five minutes, Everett had forgot his fidgets over Gina Vercours. She sipped the steaming toddy and asked for more rum, then knelt to warm her hands at the fire. She meddled with the antique kettle that swung on its bracket over the hearth. 'God, this iron kettle must weigh ten pounds.'

'Five kilos,' Everett corrected.

'I'm old-fashioned,' she said, grinning.

'Sure you are. I don't think it's polite to fly false colors.'

Still grinning, she said, 'Then I don't think you should ever do it,' and he laughed again. It was his own stance, here I am, take it or leave it; but she wore it more gracefully.

Engels, an expert interviewer, drew Gina out with ease, dropping asides on Everett now and then. A service brat, Gina had attended schools in Texas, Virginia, Texas, California, Massachusetts, and Texas before parlaying a tennis scholarship into a business degree at Arizona State.

'Funny,' Engels frowned in faked concern, 'you don't look like a jock.'

'The hell I don't,' she countered, pinching her browned forearm. 'I'll have skin like an alligator when I'm forty.'

'Which will be—?'

'In four years, Mr. Engels, don't be coy. I'm not.' Everett inwardly seconded her observation. She had no reluctance to list her strengths or her weaknesses. Health, lack of attachments, and media training were her perceived strengths. 'But I'm not really a people person, if you follow me,' she admitted. 'I like to live well, and I'm pretty selfish.'

'That's laying it on the line,' said Everett. 'Why are you interested in this escort, bodyguard, iffy kind of work? It isn't exactly steady employment, Gina. As you must know, I may not need you at all.'

For the first time, the smile she turned on him was wily, secretive, somehow very female, the wide-set hazel eyes steady on his. 'You'll need me,' she insisted softly. 'Maybe not tomorrow or next month, but if you have heavy clout in media, sooner or later you're going to need somebody.' She smiled to herself. 'I still keep ENG contacts in Phoenix, and of course I mix around when I'm on duty with Conklin. If you never before saw reporters looking over their shoulders, you can see it now. It's a feeling you can reach out and touch,' she finished.

Everett persisted. 'So why do you like it?'

'I don't like it, Mr. Everett. I like the money. Let's say you use me twice a year and Wally does the same. Added to my fees in tennis, that's a new 'vette every year.' She arched an eyebrow. 'You could use some work on the courts, Com­missioner. Work off some of that, ah, good liv­ing.^'

Engels laughed at Everett's discomfort. 'He thinks he's a bear, Gina. Fattens up every autumn, snores all winter, runs up mountains every spring. Catch him early in the morning and you'll think he's a sure-nough grizzly.'

'I don't expect to be chasing him early in the morning,' she replied smoothly, and patted Everett's knee as he flushed the hue of berry juice. 'Nothing personal, Mr. Everett—but it seemed worth clarifying.'

Everett cleared his throat, wondering how he had triggered this conversational trap. 'Understood. But you can be personal enough to call me Maury. I don't know what to call a Corvette freak, but I'll think of something suitable.'

David Engels sat back, watching the au­tomobile buffs unload on each other. Everett's dislike for `big iron' was easily supported by every datum an ecologist might cite. At one point he threatened to show photographs of Mini-Coopers beating factory Corvettes at Laguna Seca. Gina claimed to be wary of any car that could be stolen by a tumble-bug. 'Not that I blame the tumble-bug,' she cracked; 'one little ball of crap looks pretty much like another.'

Eventually, after a pizza had been delivered and demolished, Gina Vercours stretched the strong svelte legs